


Needs Must

by rosecake



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Deepthroating, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hate Sex, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:25:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21620122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecake/pseuds/rosecake
Summary: Tarkin’s all take and no give. That’s not the way this game is supposed to be played.
Relationships: Orson Krennic/Wilhuff Tarkin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 44
Collections: Star Wars Rare Pairs Exchange 2019





	Needs Must

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Asher_Ephraim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asher_Ephraim/gifts).



Tarkin kept a Corellian-style mechanical clock on the wall of his waiting room. Orson had seen plenty like it before. The small replicas of the massive clocks they used to hang up in the rafters of the old shipyards were popular decorative pieces, especially with officers. Not very practical, not when even the cheapest chrono could keep better time, but the well-crafted ones were beautiful. Something nice to hang up in an office. He could understand the appeal of them, especially to the career Navy people, who could often be quite sentimental about the history of shipbuilding and naval warfare. And the unending, unfeeling spin of the metal cogs against each other did serve as a compelling, if rather on the nose, reflection the Imperial philosophy.

Tarkin, though? Orson was certain he didn’t care about he aesthetic or the symbolism of it. No, Tarkin had hung it up solely so the soft, inexorable tick of the second hand could drive his visitors good and mad before he deigned to meet with them.

So far Tarkin had left him waiting for nearly four hours. By now Orson was familiar enough with Tarkin's petty little mind games that he wasn’t particularly surprised by the wait, but being prepared didn’t make it any easier to tolerate having his time wasted. Especially since Tarkin had gone to such lengths to make sure there was nothing else for him to do but sit and stare at the clock.

His retinue of officers and guards had been asked to wait on the lower levels (“Sorry, sir, it’s policy,” Tarkin’s secretary had said), he couldn’t catch a steady comm or holo signal (“So sorry for the inconvenience, Director, but the anti-hacking measures on Coruscant are very strict - I’m sure you know how many leaks we’ve had to deal with recently,” she said, bowing slightly in apology), and of course leaving and coming back was out of the question (“Just a few more minutes, sir, he’ll be right out,” she’d told him, smiling politely as she lied straight to his face).

Now he couldn’t even kill time harassing the secretary since she’d excused herself an hour ago, claiming some urgent business had popped up but she’d be _right_ back, and she was happy to get him anything he needed, he just needed to wait a few more minutes. Just a few!

He would’ve left - he'd left Tarkin’s waiting room plenty of times when he'd tried this shit before, blown off meetings and let calls go unanswered for weeks when he thought he could get away with it - but he had too many accounts in the red right now to risk it. He'd already had to halt construction on the new research facility to keep the supply lines for the station liquid. There was nothing for him to do except sit on the couch and slowly loose his mind.

The clock ticked along, unbothered as the day slipped away from him, and when the project was complete and his position was secure he was going to tear the damn thing off the wall and break it over Tarkin’s head.

By the time Tarkin finally, _finally_ opened the the door a notch Orson had already committed murder in his head about a thousand times.

“So sorry for the wait,” he said, a slight, condescending smile on his face as he ushered Orson in. “You know how it is.”

The string of obscenities running through Orson’s head was so overpowering it took him a moment too long to come up with something reasonable to say in response. “Of course,” he said, smiling back, just as openly condescending as Tarkin. _Go fuck yourself with a railspike._ “It’s no bother.”

“What can I help you with?”

He knew exactly what Orson wanted. There had been so many calls and messages and official requests over the past three weeks that Orson was certain they’d managed to drown out whatever other business Tarkin had going on. Sometimes that was the only way to get him to respond. “Your office hasn’t approved our latest round of funding yet, and it’s beginning to cause issues," he said through gritted teeth. 

“Ah, right,” said Tarkin. He didn’t take a seat, he only leaned back against the edge of his desk. He didn’t offer Orson a seat, either. “You’re broke. Again.”

Orson didn’t much appreciate the inflection Tarkin put on _again_. “If you didn’t set such unreasonable limits we wouldn’t have to keep having this conversation again and again, ad nauseam,” he said, swallowing the urge to tear into him. “You’re slowing us down.”

“We’re alone in here,” said Tarkin, gesturing around his office as if to prove it. “You don’t have to put on like your situation is somehow my fault. There’s nobody around to fool.”

“This project is the future of the Empire,” said Orson, the mask of civility finally dropping as he snarled, leaning forward. With Tarkin perched on the edge of his desk Orson was taller, could finally talk down to him. He'd had hours to dwell, to feel his blood pressure slowly ratchet up, and it feels good to let all that anger spill out of him. “It’s important. I shouldn’t have to get on my knees and beg every time I need more money.”

Tarkin looked up at him, infuriatingly unphased at having Orson in his face. “It's very important," he said mildly. "So I'm not sure how you justify wasting half your budget on a research facility for a scientist you haven’t actually found yet.”

Orson's face burned. Galen's continued absence was something of a sore spot. “We’ll have him soon enough,” he snapped.

Tarkin looked openly skeptical, and Orson could feel his hand involuntarily curl into a fist. “Sure,” said Tarkin. “In the meantime, though, you’ve got nothing to show for the last few years, so I’m going to need you to beg. And beg _convincingly_.”

Orson began to protest, but Tarkin talked right over him. “The battle station will live on with or without you, Krennic. But another year of delays and budget problems - or, really, at this point even a few more months - well, you may not be around to see it finished.”

Orson’s chest tightened, his rage turning cold and sharp. “Are you threatening me?”

“Yes,” said Tarkin. He looked straight at Orson, his hard eyes completely devoid of even the smallest spark of humanity, and Orson wanted nothing more than to pop them right out of his skull. “I am threatening you. I do believe I’ve been obvious enough that it should have been apparent even to a person as thick-skulled as yourself.”

Orson could feel his pulse throbbing in his forehead, in his hands. “What exactly do you want from me, Tarkin?”

“I want to take a blade and gut you open from crotch to sternum until your insides slip out of you,” said Tarkin, leaning forward and tracing his hand up Orson’s stomach. His voice was low, and it took all of Orson’s self control not to flinch as he slapped his hand away. “It’d make a mess of my office, certainly, but at least then I could be sure it would be the last mess of yours I’d ever have to clean up.”

There’s a calm, even malevolence to him that sends ice up Orson’s spine. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re forgetting your place,” said Tarkin sharply. He stood suddenly, forcing Orson back, and then took another step forward, nearly upsetting Orson's balance in the process. He didn’t fall, but there was an undignified stumble as he tried to put distance between them. “You walk in here, red-faced and indignant, but you’re not brave enough to do anything about it, are you? You know which one of us the Emperor favors.”

Orson swallowed, self-preservation outweighing his pride, if only for a moment. “What's it going to take to get you to give me my money?”

Tarkin turned his back to him. "You already know what I want," he said, walking back to his desk chair. "Get on your knees and beg for it."   
  
He sat, his thighs splayed, undoing the catch on his tunic, and it was obvious what he wanted Orson on his knees for. Orson had blown a lot of people to get ahead in life - Tarkin included - and he wasn't ashamed of it. He'd come from nothing, and it had taken everything he had in him to claw his way up this far. Everything, skill and intelligence and bribery and violence and sex, but he'd managed it. He'd been playing this game his whole life, but the demand still burned, because he was used to the give and take of it all but all Tarkin ever did was fucking _take._ He was sick of it. 

But, then again, taking a cock down his throat was still a lot easier on his pride that having to actually beg. As if his work needed to be justified. 

He got down between Tarkin's thighs, the thick, gaudy pile of the carpet suddenly something to be thankful for instead of just an eyesore. He reached for Tarkin's belt, and for a moment he relished in the dark, indulgent fantasy of wrapping it around the bastard's throat and pulling it tight enough to choke the life out of him. But instead he undid the catch on Tarkin's trousers, freeing his cock. 

Tarkin shifted slightly as Orson slid his hand along his cock, feeling it stiffen. He ran his hand along it a second time, and then a third, and then Tarkin took him by the back of the head and pushed him forward. Orson took the hint and opened his mouth, reaching for Tarkin with his tongue and then slowly taking the head of his cock into his mouth. Tarkin sighed, clearly satisfied, and Orson felt anger pool in his stomach. Anger and more than a little arousal. The two were tied together for him in way he didn't care to reflect on. 

He sucked lightly and then pulled back, dragging a hand along Tarkin’s shaft, and he wasn't surprised when Tarkin tightened his grip in Orson's hair and shoved him forward. Tarkin had never been particularly gentle or considerate, in sex or in anything else Orson can figure, not even back when they first met and hadn't gotten around to loathing each other yet. 

He opened his jaw wider, letting Tarkin set the pace - it would be faster this way, after all - and Tarkin pushed himself in deep, hitting the back of Orson’s throat for a second before pulling back. The next thrust was hard enough that Orson gagged, pulling back involuntarily, tears welling up in his eyes as he choked. His own cock twitched in his pants, the rough handling getting to him, and he moaned Tarkin's cock without meaning or wanting to. He dug his fingers into Tarkin's pants, desperate for some way to keep himself grounded as Tarkin fucked his mouth and into his throat, moving relentlessly, not leaving Orson any time to recover as he thrust. It was all Orson could do to breath, and it's fucking infuriating how that choking, breathless desperation always got him hard. 

By the time Tarkin came Orson’s face was a mess and his cock was hard enough that the the strain of his erection hurt. 

“You can leave,” said Tarkin, standing and pulling his uniform back into place. 

“The-“ Krennic started, and then he coughed, once at first and then again in a brief, humiliating fit. “My funding,” he managed.

“It’ll be approved today,” said Tarkin, and straightening his tunic, and the prim bastard already looked perfectly normal, as if nothing had happened. Orson coughed again, unable to control himself, and then spat come out on Tarkin's carpet. “Get out.”

Orson got to his feet unsteadily and left before Tarkin decided to change his mind, wiping a sleeve across his face as he stalked out the door. Luckily for his dignity the secretary was still nowhere to be seen. There was a 'fresher by the lift, and Orson stopped to clean his face as best as he could manage. Having anyone else see him like this was out of the question. He splashed water across face and then ran his wet fingers through his hair, trying to push it back into place. Then he straightened out his uniform jacket and leaned forward to take a good look at himself in the mirror.

His face was still red, but by now everyone knew what his relationship with Tarkin was like. Hopefully he looked more like man angry his meeting had gone poorly than a man who'd just spent the last quarter hour getting fucked in the face. 

A shame his face wasn't his only issue. He wasn't sure what to do about the fact that he was still frustratingly hard. Between the dark uniform pants and the heavy tunic it might go unnoticed if he just left, but he hesitated, unwilling to risk it. He cursed, and then reached down to jack himself off as fast as he could manage. 

Still, he took long enough that by the time he was ready for the lift the secretary was back, Tarkin leaning over her shoulder, and they both looked at him with sharp, knowing smiles that made him see red.

Well, the joke was on Tarkin anyway. Orson had his money, and he’d have his station while Tarkin was burning in hell.


End file.
